Jane Ruminates
by Kyra4
Summary: Gunther is badly distracted. Jane ruminates.


_A/N: I had to get in on the fun! This builds on A Troublesome Predicament by Solitaire44, Jane Learns to Take a Compliment by lareepqg, and Pepper Speculates by Jatd4ever. With acknowledgement to The Misadventures of the Unfortunate Pants also by lareepqg which, although this ficlet does not directly connect to it, is a part of the same story train. Okay, who's next? Someone keep this going!_ :-D

* * *

Jane can hardly believe her eyes.

He missed the target _again!_

And no, not just the bullseye – the _target!_ As in, the _entire_ target. The arrow just went completely wild. This is unprecedented. She has never seen anything like it. Never thought she would.

What in the world is going _on!?_

He doesn't know she's observing him, and that's probably a very good thing, considering. He would not take it well, given his current performance.

It's not the first time she's done this, concealed herself to watch him practice his archery. It's something at which he is truly gifted; an arena in which she knows, deep in her heart of hearts, that she'll never equal him, let _alone_ best him.

Well, under ordinary circumstances, at least. Today just might be an exception.

In all seriousness, though, Gunther with his bow in hand is a thing of beauty. She's given up trying to deny that to herself. And by watching him from a hidden vantage point, she can appreciate his prowess without having to admit to him how amazed she truly is by his skill. Because she would _never_ admit that, not even on pain of torture.

Admitting that would be its own _kind_ of torture. Just imagine how it would affect him! As if he's not insufferable enough already, thank you _ever_ so much.

And yet… what is wrong with him _today?_

She watches, transfixed, as he notches another arrow, draws, looses… and does almost as badly. He hits the target this time, but barely; way over on the outer edge. It's still a slight improvement over missing it entirely, but he does not seem much consoled. She hears the sound of frustration he makes, and for a moment it looks as if he's going to slam the bow to the ground… but then he reasserts control (albeit only just in time). It's a valuable, precision weapon, after all.

He reaches for another arrow. Stops. Reaches again. Stops again. Jane is completely nonplussed. A very small, mean part of her wants to find satisfaction in the fact that he _isn't_ perfect at this after all… that if she marched down there right now, _she_ could actually (probably) _beat him at archery_ … even if only for today.

The much larger part of her, which is honorable and kind, is becoming legitimately concerned. This is _so_ unlike him. Missing the target, yes, but there's more to it than that; this sudden hesitation is out of place as well, this uncertainty-bordering-paralysis that won't even allow him to draw another arrow from his quiver.

He usually projects such a strong sense of confidence, after all. A strong, annoying, strutting, preening, smirking, completely intolerable sense of confidence. It drives her crazy. And she's known him well enough, for long enough, that she's cognizant of the fact that it's simply… a sort of armor that he wears, mental and emotional armor. But it's thick armor, and strong, and he wears it well, like an invisible second skin, and she's rarely ever seen a single hole in it.

And this is _more_ than a hole… she is watching that armor fall right off him, fall _apart_.

On the practice field, he suddenly shouts with frustration; a single hoarse, furious "AUGH!" He drops the bow (but gently); raises both his hands and clenches them in the hair at his temples ( _not_ gently).

Jane winces.

He turns in a full circle, then tips his head back to the sky, staring blankly upward – at what? Jane's not sure, but she thinks, at _nothing_. She doesn't believe he is seeing anything at all. Her heart gives a funny little lurch in her chest. _Gunther!_ She realizes that she really doesn't like seeing him this way. Not even one little bit. He appears utterly, helplessly overwhelmed. But by what!?

By _what?_

She watches him staring sightlessly up at the sky.

Remembers him doing the same thing yesterday, lying spread-eagled on the packed earth of the sparring ground after she'd knocked his legs out from under him.

Remembers his wide, shocked eyes and tongue-tied silence the night _before_ , at…

At…

 _The BALL_.

It all started at the ball.

A tiny exhalation of air is forced out of her as this realization clicks. The ball, of course – nothing has been the same since Lavinia's _ball_. Nothing has been the same since…

Although she doesn't know it, her _own_ eyes go impossibly wide as something else occurs to her, something both wondrous and terrifying in its implications.

Nothing has been the same since that _GOWN_.

Is this… is this all somehow connected to that infernal dress!?

Now that the thought is in her head, it refuses to be banished. Gunther's completely out-of-character behavior began the moment he saw her in that thing.

That heavy, rustling, beautifully embellished, unapologetically feminine, glorious, horrible, _dangerous_ dress.

This is a _catastrophe_. Gunther is completely scattered. And now, by extension, so is _she_. What if the castle were _attacked_ right now!? Neither one of them is in a fit state to defend it! All because of that godforsaken dress!

That wretched, shimmering, flowing, _stunning_ dress.

She has to bite her lip against making a sound of frustration all her _own_.

Down on the archery field, Gunther stoops and picks up the bow, slings it over one shoulder, and goes to retrieve his arrows, clearly done with this particular exercise in futility for today. He rakes a hand distractedly through his ink-black hair before heading back toward the keep proper.

Well, Jane reflects, this is a fix and no mistake. Gunther is more discombobulated than he's ever been, at least as far as she's aware. And it is, however unintentionally, _her fault_.

She ought to _burn_ that damned dress, if it didn't belong to the queen.

And yet... and yet...

( _You looked lovely. I would venture to say you were the most radiant squire in attendance_.)

Maybe, just _maybe_ , whispers a traitorous little corner of her mind as she unfolds herself from her place of concealment…

 _Maybe I should find an occasion to wear it_ again…


End file.
